Rewriting Stella

by Tuttle, Dan;

  A thick cocoon of cash to warm the soul.

  The contrast with the places Stella’d been

  nigh walloped her: stressed life among the prole

  had none of this. When riding to Dar’s port

  on dala dala she’d seen from the car

  lives hoping for five cents to hunger thwart.

  Here, jockeying was spending more like czar?

  Injustice angered her, and outfit troll

  was made complete as wrath made way to face.

  Stel felt herself rejecting Lex’s goal,

  this cultish cash pursuit, this Valley’s chase.

  Stel’s method-acted ogre right then peaked

  and frightened guests with outrage-puffed physique.

  103.

  A hundred others at this posh soirée

  would hopefully be less inclined to schmooze,

  so Stella at that point turned, walked away

  toward bookshelves in the corner, to peruse.

  She’d rinse their smugness off with bookish spell.

  Benita sidled up to newly-lone

  Stel, giving her a hug. “You did so well!

  Joe pawned me off to them. I truly groaned

  when they talked how much equity they had.

  I watched you ditch them even faster than—”

  “You? Yeah, they learned from your snub they should add

  their wealth in introductions. We began

  with Lex’s insecure self-worth of cash,

  attractive as a raging scrotum rash.”

  104.

  Srong Benny’s blue short sleeves were rolled, her red

  with polka dotted white scarf tied in bow

  “Now that’s the knot I’d wear atop the head,”

  said Stel, derogatorily of Joe.

  “Naomi Parker Fraley!” Benny said,

  “a woman who became herself belief.

  She’s better known as Rosie,” lips tight, red,

  “the Riveter, true poster child, motif

  that showed unconscious disbelievers chicks

  could offer something of a greater worth

  to that war crap made up by guys with dicks

  deficient in their shape or length or girth

  so to obsess them with power-seeking. Rose

  helped mobilize support for GI Joes.”

  105.

  Sure, Stella’d seen the famous posters. “She

  was helpful how?” Stel asked. “She made them free.

  Well, free to get a job in industry,

  convenient, much-believed excuse to be

  out working like the men had done before.

  It took that change in folks’ philosophy

  to let a woman go and join the Corps,

  the Waves, they called it, or fill bosses’ plea

  for labor, as supply had hit the floor.

  That ammunition didn’t make itself,

  and millions of young men were off at war.

  To normalize—” she trailed off, glared at shelf,

  where sat four blue-bound books named Zero To

  One, “working women.” “What a hero!” “True.”

  106.

  With Benny as Stel’s Virgil through this hell

  that equally was heaven to those who

  had privilege ’nough to know the folks who dwelled

  at that address, they searched through mansion, two

  quite well-intentioned, social-minded souls

  amid a sea of peers myopically

  pursuing wealth-accruing techno-goals.

  “The worst lack cause to think autoptically,”

  said Benny as they searched for friends they knew,

  “and plow ahead like AI’s paperclips.

  They’ve heedlessness. And consequences grew

  augmented by tech’s focus: pay per clicks.

  Incentives all align to just do more,

  with ignorance if more’s what we abhor.”

  107.

  “You’re saying,” Stella said, “all power is wrong?”

  “Of course not,” friend exasperatedly

  replied in haste, “I say it’s worse when prong

  of nouveau riche defense is ‘state left free

  this market, so I found niche to exploit,

  all’s fair and legal’. Billions flow from new

  unregulated sectors? ‘Tech’s adroit

  at making markets’, they’ll say. ‘Bugaboo

  is government: it’s too slow’. Crypto’s fall

  will happen, and will hurt the average Joe.”

  “But people,” Stella countered, “buy it all.

  That’s how the sector generates the dough.”

  “You’re furthering their argument, Stel.” “Is

  that bad?” Benita suddenly lost fizz.

  108.

  They wound up cherry staircase, banister

  with carvings not unlike what Stella saw

  long back in Fan, when stirrings sinister

  sensed those corrupt would for themselves redraw

  truth’s boundaries to suit their fortunes best.

  This made her recall that the reason she

  improbably before the teeming rest

  gained coveted American entry

  was that she knew official couple who

  had clout in China, family in the States,

  and time enough to do what very few

  were able to: take days, months to make mates

  with frontline workers at the embassy.

  Here, power was quick condemned; to Stel, it freed.

  109.

  In moody musing and their wand’ring search

  they passed some objects making quite a scene:

  the Oriental parlor, hushed as church,

  held hundred seated devotees who’d been

  (according to ad signage) hypnotized.

  Stel figured Cadence totally approved

  since B.I.G. was primo in his eyes:

  and that so-titled single frankly grooved.

  They entered sitting room, where pens for prayers

  called guests to write on tiniest of sheets

  they hung on wireframe tree. Each rocked as airs

  were eddied in the wake of fleet elites.

  That tree was one that Stella rather liked,

  and so she wrote a wish she hung in flight.

  110.

  The quest concluded when they found their friends

  in heavy conversation, likely buzzed,

  out front door on the landing. “All the ends

  will justify the means,” Tee said, hand gloved

  with opera-length hold for her cigarette,

  itself handrolled, but otherwise the twin

  of Audrey Hepburn’s Tiffany’s vedette,

  while making clear no holds were barred to win.

  Expounding ended right as girls came by—

  or so Stel guessed, since conversation ceased.

  She’d yet to learn to read from that dame’s eye

  when friendliness was true and when it fleeced.

  They shivered on the porch and sipped from drinks,

  mid-evening pause to prime the thinker’s thinks.

  111.

  A conversation pause invitingly

  let Stella pose a tiny question that

  had lingered in her brain most bitingly

  since understanding well-placed technocrat

  was inside leverage that she’d had to use

  to spring from China overseas to Bay.

  “Is use of one’s power always an abuse,

  or is it fine so that you get your way?”

  The question garnered looks, all malice-free,

  as none expected such a query. Thoughts

  exploded from the curiosity

  as voices vied to vocalize life’s ’ought’s.

  They fluctuated, thinking power was wrong

  till challenged that they envied who was strong.<
br />
  112.

  Debate seemed stuck semantically until

  Mo pointed out, “…men cited, looked up to,

  all thought of blood: they planned and hoped none spilled.

  It’s not that power must equal violence. Glue

  for them was reputation, image, brand.

  Their oratory, organizing peeps

  was power built up from plain old soapbox stand,

  they gathered like a shepherd all their sheeps.”

  Tee said, “Once built up, it’s how they deployed

  that energy they’d activate, what cause.

  That end’s the point of judgment.” This annoyed

  kind Mona, who had nearly finished clause

  toward same point, wrapping with tight logic’s bow

  before the interruption broke her flow.

  113.

  Deterrent interruption gathered steam:

  “That’s why I hold belief the Boy’s a fiend,

  a demagogue who’s taken to extreme

  this groundswell negativity convened.

  Ignore a moment all the falsities

  deployed to gain momentum in the chase,

  forget that. In the present, fault is he’s

  continuing to mobilize the base

  toward closing, judging, taxing, hating. Move

  from faith in fact and science toward belief

  and lose your basis to prove or disprove

  if any action brings our lives relief.

  Of course our gaslit lives feel under siege,

  reduced to beg for some noblesse oblige.”

  114.

  “I get you,” added Cade, “that’s just what Nas

  was throwing down in ‘Want To Talk To You’:

  addressing politicians as the boss

  and asking each to step into his shoes.

  Hey Mayor, ’magine this was your backyard.

  Hey Governor, no jobs for nephew meant

  his choice was selling crack or dying, starved.

  And don’t get started on Boy President…

  Point is, those cats on top have gotta make

  their choices like they lived with folks down low.”

  “That’s actually the stance that John Rawls takes,

  to maximize the good for worst-off schmo,”

  said Benny, showing off her intellect.

  “In Opposition, then, let’s Boy reject.”

  115.

  “An ‘Opposition’, as Tee names it, in

  its very definition’s anchored on

  the shortfalls boyish Boy and toady kin

  will bare to us from gilded pantheon.

  You’ve anchored what you think in what you hear,

  the same way knees’ reflexes jerk when slight

  and painless hammer pressure’s put right here,

  bypassing logic, reason, or insight.

  The way you act’s habituated, not

  nuanced in any way or shape or form

  that would discern what merits a boycott

  and what is meant to merely misinform.

  Of course, if Opposition’s blanket warms,

  then snuggle up and good luck through the storms.

  116.

  I fear your gear, however, cannot last

  the lengthy tempest that he’s out to brew.

  Your blanket tatters ’fore the gales have passed,

  your huddled, hail-hit bodies burned to blue.

  An Opposition categorical

  in all it says and does will end up spent,

  exhausted by each tit tat roar, prick, pull

  manipulation Boy that day has sent.

  He’s clever, pilfering your boldness by

  recasting politics from single bouts

  on issues to attrition, nullified

  your verve by shelling you day in, day out.

  To play his game, you stay in warfare’s trench.

  It’s up to you to play, not warm the bench

  117.

  or even better yet, to change the game.

  I can’t become the ‘Opposition’. When

  that gets to be the dominating frame

  you’ve given too much power up to his pen.

  He knows that you’ll say ‘no’ to everything

  (an edge were he to have a strategy)

  and thus controls your interests like a king.”

  Mo breathed. Tee countered: “So lay flat, as he

  steamrolls our every interest every day?

  That’s hardly a position Che would take.”

  “Of course not, that reductio per se

  is sloppy thinking. Still, you need to break

  your habit of allowing someone to

  dictate the things importantest to you.”

  118.

  Stel listened to Tee’s, Mona’s back-and-forth,

  surprised to hear Mo taking such a stand,

  and finding in her words a truer north

  than those of Tee to reject out of hand.

  It wasn’t wholly clear if others felt

  the same in their unease for branding as

  an entity whose primal purpose dealt

  with saying ‘no’ to what another has

  said publicly he’ll do. Tee pressed, “Hashtag

  big-O in Opposition’s better brand

  for social media.” “Likes don’t trash flags,

  Confederate or otherwise. Grandstand-

  ing is name’s sole reward.” On vote they’d be

  ‘The Opposition’ till none obeyed Tee.

  119.

  From cigarettes and hunger, booze and cold

  came motivation soon to relocate

  the conversation from porch tech bankrolled

  to corner store to snack and eat. “Stoked, Cade,”

  asked Mo, “they took the name? In that debate

  they didn’t hear my point; they’re getting duped.”

  “I’m mixed,” he said, “to stand against stuff’s great,

  like ‘Ways to Kill a CEO’ by Coup,

  but that don’t say a thing ’bout what to build

  when revolution puts you up on top.”

  “Exactly it. We’re not compelling; billed

  as platform with no platform.” Stel’s eavesdrop

  dropped as they paired off. Signs of Central Haight

  bodega neared each step. Lit, open late,

  120.

  it greeted passers-by with mural of

  Bob Marley backed by Rasta washes, quote

  beside his head and Stel’s, sat just above

  eye height. White lettered, chosen anecdote

  was: Do not gain the world and lose your soul,

  which Stella felt germane to man-bun Joe,

  wisdom is better than silver and gold.

  Cade saw it, knew it: “Zion Train”. He glowed

  when music’s lyrics intersected chat

  and wove in similarities from past

  to problems in the present. “Song’s format,”

  continued Cade, “makes painless the broadcast

  of values held, folks listen and don’t judge.

  Our poppy narratives fix flaws begrudged.”

  121.

  They entered as a pack: Cade, Mona, Tee,

  and Stella, spirit of Abu beside,

  with other randoms Opposition’s creed

  threw in their rabble, reasons each red-eyed.

  Stel’d been to supermarkets, petrol stops,

  convenience stores, and all the like before.

  She’d never, though, been to them drunk. Hand propped

  against the automatic sliding door,

  she timidly extended heel inside,

  eyes flitting for which safety handhold next

  would brace her lest her wobbly knees both slide

  directions that would leave her joints perplexed.

  She found a faceless arm to brace her, stave

  off spill, then saw the
rainbow tidal wave.

  122.

  Beginning were the Gatorades, their hues

  fluorescent and transparent, then came juice

  cold-pressed and pulped, caloric greens’ chartreuse

  with wheatgrass, antioxidants infused.

  They bordered bubbly bottles, fizzy brews

  with saccharides of artificial make

  once natural, like sarsaparilla, whose

  plant tastes were copped from now-unknown namesakes.

  Her fleeting count of flitting flavors slipped

  into another thought once thirty notched.

  Each product on its own was nondescript,

  together they made Pantone color swatch.

  “Too many,” Stella drawled in escort’s ear,

  his mind by spectacle not commandeered.

  123.

  “These chips,” her hand on dijon, barbecue,

  then salt and pepper, vinegar, and shrimp,

  “…but where potatoes sprout’s so far… We grew

  those back at home. What you have here’s been pimped,

  been whored to feel like something else. They’ve used

  what’s earthy, natural here to lure you. Can’t

  you see that they’ve bamboozled you? Peruse…

  and find one thing your greatest – grandmum, aunt –

  whoever’s ghost ate when she was a kid!”

  Her body slackened on the outstretched arm,

  her roughshod speech forced Cade finally forbid

  her from another sentence of alarm.

  Her last resentful words: “You all are kings

  with endless feasting, yet complain of things…”

  124.

  With world now spinning out, she tried the trick

  perfected in her youth: deep breaths to cool

  reactions. Liquor balked. She still felt sick.

  This Bay, she seethed, keeps breaking all the rules!

  Its homeowners abhor their lovely trees;

  its workers now reside in coffee shops;

  its wealthy want from feds tax liberties;

  its youth protest the government and cops.

  The Boy’s distracting everyone, sucked air

  from lungs that otherwise might get things done.

  The ‘Opposition’ was their construct where-

  by they’d solve any of this? Head still spun,

  in own insolvency at unresolved

  big questions, and as liquor guts dissolved.

  125.

  But Stella held on. Mentally, at least.

  She needed time to process. Structure. Think…

  She ought to talk to Cade… Yes? No! He ceased

  to listen sometimes, readied lyrics’ link

  before time taken so to understand

  the speaker’s real position. He’d not do.

  She needed medium, not guiding hand.

  Who listened for Stel’s story? Ink blots knew

  what childhood put in Annals ’fore she stopped.